


Green

by WizardsGirl



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Continue or not to continue - that is the question, Culture - Freeform, Emotional Instability, Gen, Get your tissues ready please, Hobbits - Freeform, More tags later, Stillborn/Stillbirth, Triggery, not even sorry, sad fic is sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardsGirl/pseuds/WizardsGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobbits are fascinating creatures, with secrets and traditions that most other races cannot fathom. They are beings who love peace and laughter and a good meal. However, that does not mean that they are not touched by grief or hardship...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a happy plunny, and then decided to set itself on fire and throw itself into a wood-chipper while Misha Collins cried "Confetti! It's a Parade!" in the background.

Bilbo Baggins was a fine, respectable genteel Hobbit. He held and was invited to many parties, had many friends in his neighbors, and only ever had stern words with his less-than-reputable cousins, the Sackville-Bagginses (which was an accepted fact, as many a Hobbit smial was checked when those particular relatives visited, and all the silverware counted and re-counted, as Lobelia had a tendency to sneak about with her neighbors fine silver spoons in her pocket). However, despite his friendly, respectable nature, his lovely garden, and, indeed, his fine stories, there were no marriage offers, no courtships, and, indeed, not one offer to move into his large family home, Bag End.

The reason for this was not that he was half-Took, those rambunctious, adventurous lot. Nor was it that he was half-Baggins, all of whom were respectable, gentle-Hobbit lads and lasses. It wasn't that he, himself, had done anything, or that his parents (May the Green Lady watch over their souls) had. In fact, it was because Bilbo Baggins  _couldn't_  do something.

Bilbo could not grow a fauntling.

Ah, now, if you are not a Hobbit, than you would not understand, and would assume this meant that he was infertile. In a way, this would be true, but in such a way that it is vastly not.

Hobbits, you see, are the creations of the Green Lady, Yavanna, like the Ents and the extinct Entwives, making them siblings. In this fashion, they were also cousins to the Elves, and the opposites of the Orcs, for Hobbits were made with love from the sun and earth and created for green things and joy and were generally peaceful creatures; while the Orcs were abominations, creatures made of blood and shadow and the corruption of the earth, made for war and death and cruelty, with the hunger of flesh and others pain in their hearts. The Hobbit's Life-Song, the Song Yavanna had Sung to bring them into being, and been corrupted and tormented and made so  _wrong_  that the Orcs had come about because of it's discordant tune.

But, we are getting off topic.

Hobbits, as you now know, are peaceful, loving creatures, who love to grow things and party and, most of all, to  _eat_ , as their seven meals a day would most definitely show. However, there is nothing in the world more precious to them, than children. Fauntlings, dwarflings, elflings, or human, it mattered not, for children were  _always_  precious, to be protected and nurtured and  _loved_. However, due to their creation, Hobbits can not give  _birth_  to children, as a Human or Elf or even a Dwarf would.

No, instead, they would use their unique type of magic, the magic of green things and growing and love, and mix that with the blood of themselves and, should they have one (for Hobbit's were nothing if not fascinating creatures, capable of things many other species could only think of in passing before dismissing such a notion) their partner's, and place it within a simple seed, which they would nurture with this magic everyday, until a pod began to grow. And, inside this pod, would grow a Fauntling; a baby Hobbit, that would mature and feed off the magic and love and voices of their parent or parents, until the sun rose high on a certain day, and their pod curled open like a rose blooming, and their magic cried out for their Mother or Father or both, and they were welcomed to the Shire and began their lives.

This is where poor Bilbo is brought in, you see.

Once, in his earlier years after he had grown from tween to a handsome, young Hobbit lad, he had  _had_  a suitor, a beautiful Hobbit lass named Lilac Narrowfoot (who were an off-branch of the larger Clan, the Proudfoot's, though some great-great-aunt who had married a Hobbit lad whose last name had been Narrows, and combined the two names in a fit of whimsy, to her father's dismay). She had had long red hair, a particular delight for any Hobbit, as the color was a rarity, more so than the darker browns and blacks that occasionally popped up. Her eyes had been a light, cinnamon color, and a dusting of similarly colored freckles had danced across her cheeks and nose, just above the dimple that showed in her right cheek when she smiled (which had been often). Bilbo had loved her since he was just a young tween, and had courted her as soon as he was able, proving himself as a fine suitor by presenting her with beautiful gifts or intricate meals to share with her family. Finally, her parents consented, but only if he could prove that he could provide for their comely daughter, something that everyone had believed was just a simple, easy task. After all, it was even rarer than a red-haired Hobbit, for any gentle-Hobbit to be unable to grow a Faunt.

And so, the two of them had attempted to create a child, and the pod had grown and grown, with Bilbo and Lilac working happily to nurture the no-doubt beautiful child growing for them, love and happiness filling their lives with a new kind of light that made the older and married Hobbit couples smile knowingly at each other.

But, the day that the pod curled open, and the two Hobbits had crowded around their little Fauntling, the smiles that had been so bright upon their faces, froze, and their hearts broke. For, inside the pod, had been no beautiful, crying babe, but a silent still one; half the size of the pod surrounding them and curled in on themselves as if they had not even had time to stretch before they had returned to the Great Garden of Yavanna.

Their child had died before she (and it had been a little girl, with Bilbo's hair and Lilac's freckles) had even had a chance to live, and with her died any hope in Bilbo's heart for a family of his own, to fill the hollow places in his heart and his smial.

Lilac had left, after that, no doubt blaming Bilbo as he did himself, and moved to her cousin's home some towns away, where she married one Gorbyn Goodmills.

Bilbo, however, had been left alone in his large, empty smial, and the grave of a child he had dug himself and  _buried_  himself and  _named_ _ **himself**_ , to haunt his life and dreams. Little Olive Baggins was buried the day she was born, surrounded and covered swiftly by a thick garden of yellow and magenta zinnias, in the same place Bilbo had buried what little remains of his parents there had been after the Fell Winter had stolen them; the small patch of land just on the edge of his smial, protected by a briar and thorn-filled fence near the gate leading up to Bag End. And there, he set a stone bench, where he would sit and smoke his pipeweed and visit them, whispering tales to his daughter and telling his parents of the day he had had, keeping all the sorrow and grief and self-loathing locked away until he could safely let it out, usually with a large amount of Gamgee Special Brew and a nice, dark room to hide in where no one would see it.

So, although he was a respectable, genteel-Hobbit, he was also a marked Hobbit, one that Hobbit lads and lasses were told to not get too close to. Friends was fine; you could never have enough of those after all. But anything else would lead to heartache, as Bilbo could attest. He never tried to grow another child; the fear and pain of sweet little Olive's death happening again stayed his hand. And, even though he adored all his little nieces and nephews and cousins and even the neighborhood Faunts who came to him to listen to his playful tales or steal a few of his delicious treats, he couldn't help but hurt every time he saw their little, gap-toothed grins, held their small hands, or kissed their scraped knees, because, always in the back of his mind, he would wonder...

_Would my Olive smile like that? Would she laugh and play and come begging for one more treat or story before bed?_

Years passed like this, and soon Bilbo was turning fifty-three, and found himself spending more and more time at home, and hours at a time sitting on his bench, speaking to his child and his parents.

Some days he would just sit quietly with his lost loved ones and just imagine what life would be like with them, or what they were doing in Yavanna's Great Garden (his mother was no doubt teaching sweet Olive about adventuring, Took Green eyes glittering with mischief as his little one giggled and grinned, and his father sighing in exasperation and worrying about the stains on their clothes but smiled none-the-less as Yavanna Sang another Fauntling into Life nearby and held another Hobbit who had joined her once more). It was on one of these days, in the early morning just after First Breakfast but before Second, where one peculiar, rather rude Wizard found him, and started talking about an adventure.

And, in his heart-of-hearts, where the pain and loss and loneliness had only just begun to sink it's claws in, something rather Tookish raised its head and pushed the shadows a little farther back. And it remained awake and interested and restless, even after Bilbo had sent the mad Wizard away (being rather rude himself, he acknowledged wryly later on, when the sting of panic and pain and curiosity had settled back).

Things were going to be changing, he knew.

Rather for better or worse, however, was the question.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotionally-Instable Bilbo ahead! ^-^

#  Green

 

"I don't believe I agreed to feed _you_ , Gandalf, let alone your... Friends," Bilbo snapped at the Wizard scathingly as he twitched, watching the twelve Dwarrows make a mess of his Smial and empty his pantry (and goodness, just what did they do to his plumbing?!). Gandalf smiled his queer smile and puffed on his pipe, smoke curling and rising about him in a mix musical notes, of all things.

"Worry not, dear Bilbo," the Wizard replied airily. "It is for the best." Bilbo sputtered and gawped at him for that, and then hissed like a scalded cat when the rude Wizard meandered off without as much as a by-your-leave.

"Tea, sir?" a voice next to him asked mildly, making Bilbo jump and spin around, only to sigh wearily at the polite-looking silver-haired Dwarf before him, large fingers holding his silver tea tray with a surprising amount of comfortable grace.

"Yes, please, and much thanks for it, sir," Bilbo replied, accepting a lightly steaming cup with a tired sigh.

"A bit rambunctious, that lot," the silver-haired Dwarf acknowledged with a distinctly disapproving stare as the Dwarf with the hat (was that Bombur or Balin or...? So many names, too fast to remember!).

"Especially since I was not informed to expect any guests," Bilbo groused mildly, shaking his head and sipping his tea. "I don't usually get nighttime visitors, and so I've nothing set out for any of you." The Dwarf hesitantly nodded, before frowning.

"Gandalf told us that you had invited us to dinner," he started slowly, eyes narrowing; Bilbo gave a snort of amusement, hand shooting up to cover his nose and mouth in embarrassment, before he quickly replied.

"Had I knowingly invited anyone, Master Dwarf, you and your kin would not be eating food straight from my pantry, but instead a full-cooked meal in its stead!" He huffed, gently-pointed ears sporting a rosy-flush as irritation and embarrassment mixed. "I feel like a terrible host, now," he admitted with a sigh; the Dwarf patted him lightly on the shoulder with an apologetic look.

"I'll go and set the lads right, Master Hobbit," he assured kindly, sending a particularly vicious glare at the Dwarf with the star-pointed hair as he rushed by, holding a long string of seasoned sausages out of reach of the heavier-set red-headed Dwarf (and wasn't it a shock, to see two of these strange Dwarrows with such a coveted color, and so much of it! Indeed, had he not been fretting so much, Bilbo would have found himself hard pressed to not simply stare at the two in wonder. After all, one Hobbit with even the palest of red hair was born every couple of decades, and here were two Dwarfs, one of which had hair so red it looked nearly blood-soaked! A wonder, indeed...). "I'll make sure they set everything back to rights quickly enough." Bilbo flashed the Dwarf an appreciative smile, and took another sip of his tea with a gentle sigh.

"This tea is truly delicious, Master Dwarf," he complimented; the silver-haired Dwarf flashed him a pleased smile, before he strode off and promptly began to whack his kinsmen about their heads and scold them in that strange, rumbly language of theirs. Bilbo took a few minutes to savor the tea, closing his eyes and attempting to keep his temper in check. Since his little Olive’s death, his emotions had been much harder to control, and, seeing all these strange, uninvited Dwarrows parading around his usually neat and horribly silent Smial… His fingers clenched against his now-empty cup, and he watched dispassionately as it broke, blinking as he stared at his hand and took slow, deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself, skin crawling.

Suddenly, large, gentle hands were cradling his, and he blinked, lifting his eyes to find the polite silver-haired Dwarf eying the appendages with a critical eye and gently pursed lips, taking a few moments to dust cup fragments from his skin, and neatly pluck a few splinters from his fingers.

“There now, Master Baggins,” he said, pressing a handkerchief to the blood-dotted flesh and finally lifting coal-colored eyes up to meet Bilbo’s gray-green.

“Thank you, Master Dwarf,” Bilbo replied faintly, blinking slowly. “I get a bit lost, sometimes, I’m afraid.” The Dwarf nodded his silver-head and returned his eyes to Bilbo’s hands consideringly.

“We all have bad days,” he replied simply. “And you may call me Dori, Master Baggins.” Bilbo blinked, and let out a slow breath.

“And you may call me Bilbo, Master Dori,” he responded in kind, before there was a great ruckus from the dining area, and the two of them watched, one stunned and the other exasperated, as the rowdy Dwarrows began to throw Bilbo’s china about like a Fauntling’s toys. A stray cup flew towards them, and Dori neatly caught it and examined it, finding it clean, and nodded over at Bifur as the other Dwarf cheerfully went back to eating the centerpiece while catching and washing dishes at the sink.

“Don’t fret, Master Bilbo,” Dori soothed as Bilbo felt his fingers tense and his shoulder hunch. “They’ve never dropped a plate or spoon in these games before. All your cookery will be cleaned and returned to their proper places in a few moments.” Bilbo took slow, even breaths through clenched teeth before his temper died down, and he relaxed enough to nod to Dori. This Dwarf, at least, was both well-mannered and well-kept, and something about him soothed Bilbo’s ragged edges a ways. And, indeed, his dishes were whole and clean, stacked neatly and surrounded by joyfully laughing Dwarves. Bilbo gave them a thin smile, and nodded to Bifur who had done the washing.

The joviality was interrupted by three loud, heavy knocks.

“He's here,” Gandalf announced gravely in the ensuing silence; Bilbo narrowed his eyes.

“ _Another_ uninvited guest, Gandalf?” he asked sharply, hands falling to his hips in white-knuckled fists. Dori gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder as the Wizard coughed and want to answer the door.

“Would you like another cup of tea, Master Bilbo?” the silver-haired Dwarf asked calmly; Bilbo breathed in slowly and gave him a tight nod.

“I think that would be best, Master Dori, Thank you,” he replied politely; Dori inclined his large head and walked quickly away, absently giving the star-haired Dwarf a sharp look and growling something in their language that made the Dwarf roll his eyes.

“So, this is the Burglar?” A deep voice asked; Bilbo looked over at the doorway, and found himself examining the Dwarf standing there. He was taller than several of his comrades, though not as tall as the intimidating Dwalin. Clear, bright blue eyes stared at him scornfully under heavy brows, and wild black hair and beard.

“He looks more like a grocer than a Burglar,” the Dwarf announced; Bilbo's eyes narrowed.

“And you look like yet another uninvited guest making yourself at home in my Smial, Master Dwarf,” he snarled, earning startled looks from the Dwarrows who'd already been in his home, and a sharp, concerned look from Gandalf. “So, kindly hold your tongue, as I've no compunction of removing it for you,” he growled, before he stalked past the stunned, indignant Dwarf and sent Gandalf a truly harsh glare, before stalking his way outside to sit on his bench and huff, the cool air doing nothing for his high temper as he took out his pipe and began to smoke a generous amount of Old Toby's, glowering into the night.

After a few minutes, though, he sighed, and his temper drained away and left behind a hollow depression. Staring moodily down at the ground, Bilbo took a fortifying breath and steeled himself, before flicking the ember from his pipe and sliding said pipe away into his robe pocket. Wrapping himself up, he murmured a goodnight to his Olive and parents, before trotting back up the steps and into his Smial, frowning at the weapons leaning against the wall. One of them, a large warhammer he recognized as Dwallin's, was too big to be left where it was, unless someone fancied a broken toe. With a sigh, he bent and heaved it up, surprised to find it easier than he thought, and he settled it onto his shoulder when yelling erupted from the dining area.

Irritation rising once more at the sudden noise, the Hobbit stomped in and, without a single thought, gripped the hammer's thick handle and whirled it forward with a snarl. The head of the hammer slammed into the table with a thunderous crack, neatly breaking the heavy, oak table nearly in half, and silencing the room as every Dwarf leapt away and turned to stare at him, wide-eyed, while the table groaned and held together... Barely. Bilbo gave them all a harsh glare, and neatly lifted the hammer back onto his shoulder, holding it easily with one hand as the other dropped to his hip in a white-knuckled fist.

“Be. Quiet,” he growled out, glowering at the lot of them. “This is _my_ home, and if you cannot be hospitable, you can leave.” He met their eyes, one at a time, before a someone cleared their throat, and he turned his head to find Dori with a tray that held a kettle and a cup of steaming tea. He walked over and set the tray down, before placing the teacup and its saucer in front of a chair.

“Tea, Master Bilbo?” The polite Dwarf said calmly; Bilbo's temper evaporated, and he managed a thin smile as he swung the hammer down to rest against his chair as he sat.

“Much obliged, Master Dori,” he replied warmly, smiling widening a little as Dori nodded and took the abandoned seat next to him. Bilbo took a sip of his tea with a pleased hum. After a few seconds, the rest of the Dwarrows slowly retook their seats, eying the two of them with wide or calculating eyes.

“Now,” Bilbo said, feeling much calmer than he had most of the night since the Dwarrows first arrived. “What's this about an adventure?”


	3. Chapter 3

#  Green

 

Bilbo woke with the dawn, curled up on the floor of his room while the brothers Ri (Polite Dori, his star-headed brother Nori, and adorable little Ori) snored on his large bed (it was abnormally wide for a single Hobbit, but Bilbo loved it). Carefully, back aching a little, the Hobbit silently got dressed and slipped out of the room, going to the kitchen. There wasn't much left in the pantry, but a peek into the cellar found all of his potatoes, his large stash of bacon, the fresh three dozen eggs he'd gotten just the day before, and another wheel of cheddar cheese. Smiling, pleased, Bilbo began to swiftly move the ingredients upstairs, where he began to quickly mix up a few Bacon Potato Pies, mostly for breakfast, although some could be kept for a snack later that day, so he set some aside to wrap properly.

As the sun rose steadily higher, the smell of the cooking food drifted through the house, Bilbo smiled as the sound of stumbling feet and the rumbly language of the Dwarrows filled the usually achingly silent Smial. The Company had rather grown on him during the night, though he knew his temper was bound to cause difficulties on this suicide march.

“Don't touch the pans on the counter,” Bilbo ordered as the first of his guests entered the room, the large, redheaded Dwarf who had a Hobbit's love for food. Bombur, Bilbo believed. “Those are going to travel with us, for a snack or meal on the road.” Bilbo obligingly set a large steaming plate in front of the Dwarf, who beamed in thanks before he promptly dug in. Bilbo felt a flare of pride as the Dwarf made low, pleased noises a he ate, genuinely enjoying the meal. Soon, the rest of the group was sleepily digging in, Gandalf emerging from the single, Human-sized guest room Bag End had.

“We'll be leaving soon,” Thorin, the leader of the Company, informed the room coldly, glaring narrowly at Bilbo even as the Hobbit moved around his kitchen easily.

“Hmm,” Bilbo acknowledged, cutting the now-cold BP Pie into even cuts and wrapping them into individual pieces for the Company. “I packed last night after you'd all been settled in bed.”

“I didn't hear you,” Ori chimed in, eyes curious; Bilbo sent him a small smile.

“Hobbits have a magic of their own,” Gandalf commented as he finished his breakfast with a sip of tea. “When they wish to go about unseen and unheard, they are all but invisible.” Bilbo hummed, absently washing his dishes, joined by Bifur (the Dwarf with the ax in his forehead. He was a rather nice fellow, even if he couldn't speak a word of Common, but he could understand it, and Bilbo knew better than to try and treat him like an invalid. His cousin, Reebo, had been a member of the Bounders, when an accident while practicing had landed him with an arrow through his head. He could move and see and such just fine, he merely lost the ability to speak anything but Hobbitish, and could no longer tell his left from right. Didn't stop him from tanning Bilbo's hide as a younger Faunt, however, when the mischievous Bilbo stole one of his arrows to play with.).

“I'll need to say goodbye to my daughter before we go,” the Hobbit said aloud absently, and blinked when there was an immediate sputtering and coughing behind him, turning to find Gandalf staring at him, eyes wide as a few of the Dwarves shared startled looks.

“I was not aware you had a daughter, Bilbo,” the Wizard finally said, voice subdued; Bilbo smiled faintly.

“Yes, my little Olive,” he replied warmly; the Wizard's brows furrowed.

“Well, where is the baby Hobbit, then?” Kílí interrupted with excitement, grinning. Bilbo felt his chest grow tight, his breath stutter, but managed to keep smiling.

“With my parents,” he replied; Gandalf flinched, and his face seemed to age slightly, dark eyes sorrowful.

“...I have not spoken to your mother in many years,” the Wizard finally said, voice quiet. “I would like to see her, and Bungo as well.” Bilbo turned and went back to doing the dishes, though there weren't many left as Bifur had continued to clean while he was talking.

“I think she'd like that,” Bilbo admitted, and closed his eyes for a second before accepting the last of the plates to dry, smiling at the injured Dwarf and thanking him for his help. The next hour was spent cleaning up the Smial and getting everything in order, leaving a note on the door for the Gaffer and tucking a few letters into his pack for the Thain, stating that if he did not return in five years, that Bag End was to go to his cousin Prim', because she would make sure his Grief Garden was well loved and cared for. Once that was done, Bilbo found himself being dragged outside by the eager Kílí and Ori, wanting to go and meet his daughter.

“It's actually much closer than you think,” Bilbo informed them, before taking the curious Dwarrows and sorrowful Wizard to his bench. There, he stopped and bowed his head, before turning a tired smile to the confused Company. “This... Is where my parents and daughter are buried,” he informed them all quietly, and turned away before their eyes could do more than widen. “My mother is there, Gandalf,” he informed the Wizard, pointing at the beautiful collection of Larkspur and Gladiolus in bloom. “Da is next to her,” he added, gesturing to the mix of Black-eyed Susans and Hyacinth that curled along beside his mother’s flowers. Gandalf nodded his head and lowered himself onto the end of the long bench that was closest to the mentioned flowers, and bowed his head, murmuring to them in a language Bilbo didn't recognize, but he let the Wizard be, and instead turned his attention to his daughter, smiling at the intermixed Zinnia's that covered his baby girl as he knelt down and stroked the flowers lightly, crooning to her in Hobbitish for several minutes.

A hand landed gently on his shoulder, and Bilbo turned his head to find Dori’s sad eyes as the silver-haired Dwarf knelt carefully beside him. Bilbo patted his hand with a wan smile, and turned back to his daughter.

“This is Master Dori, Olive,” Bilbo introduced, smiling faintly. “He’s a member of the Company I’ll be traveling with.” Dori bowed his head toward the grave with a gentle smile, eyes still sad.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Olive,” he greeted quietly, and Bilbo’s hand tightened on his for a moment, before the Hobbit turned a bright smile on him.

“Her twenty-eighth birthday was just a month ago,” he informed the Dwarf happily, eyes turning back to the flowers as the Company gave a collective flinch.

“Happy belated birthday, then, Miss Olive,” Dori said to the flowers, Bilbo bobbed his head and began to rapidly chatter at the flowers in Hobbitish, reaching out and stroking the flower petals with a soft, loving expression, before he shook his head and, gripping Dori’s hand, stood. Gandalf bowed his head as he, too, finished his conversation with his old friends, and the three turned back to the Company, Bilbo steadfastly ignoring the tearful and pained and sympathetic looks of the Dwarrows, releasing Dori’s hand and giving him a pat on the shoulder as he trotted past them and towards the ponies they had waiting at the end of the lane.

“Let’s start moving, then, shall we?” He called cheerfully over his shoulder, smiling easily, as he carefully scrambled up the side of his designated pony, Myrtle. It had been decades since he’d last sat in a saddle, and then he had been a tween, playing with his Took cousins over in Tookborough, which reminded him…

“Master Oakenshield,” he called as the Dwarrows slowly mounted their own ponies, with Gandalf disappearing to go and get his horse, which was much bigger than any beast had any right to be, honestly.

“Yes, Master Hobbit?” The Dwarf called stiffly; Bilbo shifted in his seat, tightening straps absently.

“If I am to be armed for this quest, we shall need to stop by my relatives home in Tookborough. The Thain guards the weaponry and outfits the Bounders. It’s a three day journey east of the Brandywine River, but, as we’re not walking, it should be much faster.” The Dwarf grimaced but nodded curtly, and began to lead them in the required direction. Twenty or so minutes later, young Ori was hesitantly riding next to Bilbo, glancing at him, and then back behind them, where the Royal Brothers were urging him on with eager looks.

“If you’ve a question, young Ori, you may ask,” Bilbo informed him kindly, taking pity on the pressured Dwarf, who flushed but gave him a grateful look.

“It’s just, Master Bilbo, that, well, I’m the Company Scribe, see,” He held up his journal and quill shyly as Dori’s mount in front of them slowed so that he was closer, but not enough to be considered rude. “And I was wondering if you would allow me to write a bit about Hobbits and your customs and such?” Bilbo smiled and nodded, and spent the next hour answering the steadily-relaxing Ori’s questions.

“Could you tell me about your parents?” Ori asked hesitantly, and Bilbo obliged, telling him of his overly respectable Da, and his Adventurous mother, and their love for each other. He told him of the building of Bag End, of his mother’s hunt for the perfect gift for his father in exchange, which was found all the way in the Man’s city of Rohan, a dark red coat with black horses sewn into it. He told of the Fell Winter, of his father’s death by Wolves, and his mother’s by Goblins, as they died protecting him and their neighbors from an ambush as they tried to travel to the safety of Tookborough. This led to the story of how he had taken up his mother’s Rohan blade, of his first kill and subsequent kills. His brief journey into the Bounders in an attempt to assist during the Winter, and how, when Spring came, he was sent straight back to Bag End, not yet an adult, but old enough that the Thain emancipated him and made sure none of his greedy relatives could try and take his home from him. The rest of the Company was listening in by this point, and Bilbo forced back the trapped feeling building in his chest, and focused on the embroidery he was steadily working on in his lap, steering sweet-tempered Myrtle with his legs, as he had been taught when he was younger.

“May I ask about…” Ori hesitated, biting his lips uncertainly, fiddling with his quill uncertainly, fingers already stained with fresh ink from his rapid writing. “About… Your… Um…”

“My daughter?” Bilbo finished, feeling the dark rage roll beneath his skin, and taking steady, calm breaths as he pushed it back. This Dwarf, who was hesitantly nodding to his question, was as young as his sweet Olive, and he would not treat the child as an enemy for youth’s curiosity. Closing his eyes, Bilbo tilted his head up, and opened his eyes to the sight of the clear blue sky and birds flying and the sun gleaming brightly, listening to birdsong and bugs and the rustling of leaves, the shifting of saddles and their mounts noises as they traveled.

“My child never breathed her first breath, young Ori,” he stated quietly, calmly, even as pain coiled in his gut and made him want to vomit. The Company was silent and still, shoulders hunching as they purposefully kept their eyes turned away. “And her mother left me with her before her small body was even cold. I met and named and buried my daughter within the same hour, while her mother fled and married another, and has not spoken to me or visited since then.” His smile was cold and bitter as the blackness rising up the back of his throat, and he kept his eyes up on the sky, least he see the Company’s expressions and unleash the rage held back by his tongue and gritted teeth upon them, and regret it later.

He didn’t need any more regrets in his life, and, as they spent the next hour or so traveling in silence, Bilbo lost himself in the nature around them, and the steady heat of Myrtle beneath him, and breathed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of Flower Meanings:
> 
> Belladonna's:  
> Larkspur – Beautiful Spirit  
> Gladiolus – Strength of Character
> 
> Bungo's:  
> Black-Eyed Susan – Encouragement  
> Hyacinth – Sincerity

**Author's Note:**

> Not Even Sorry (lying through teeth)
> 
> Flower Meanings:
> 
> Lilac - Pride, Beauty  
> Olive - Peace  
> Yellow Zinnias - Daily Remembrance  
> Magenta Zinnias - Lasting Affection


End file.
